You don't know
by Tessie13
Summary: Because, after a whole year of teasing and taunting, it's better just to bury unwanted memories -— Quinn/Logan, Dana/Logan


**The song is "Outside looking in" by Jordan Pruitt. Listen to it before or after reading. Or during. Just as long as you listen to it. **

**Written in the perspective of Quinn, in the first season. Semi AU, I think. Or at least some of the events (the very last one) didn't have a chance of happening, but I wanted to end this in with a strange twist.**

**Disclaimer: I do NOT own anything. Not the song, not the characters, nothing. I don't own the copyrights to the song, either. **

* * *

Pacific Coast Academy is my escape. My escape from Seattle, the place where my classmates found it fun to tease me and call me an unspeakable four letter word that rhymes with "Fraz." But it seems that I have escaped right into another world where my name can be heard, whispered in the lounges, associated with "Science" and "geek." But one of the saddest factors is this: most people here don't bother to learn the simplest thing that defines me; my name.

Judge away, fellow classmates. Rate me, and try to break me, but one conclusive statement is this; you do not know the first thing about me. Sure, you think you do, but when it comes down to it, you just do not have a single perception of what really makes me who I am. Sorry, but there is more to me than science and Quinnventions.

I made a pledge to myself that I would never use my brains to hurt any living organism. I am nice person. I am fair, honest, brilliant, kind. And I don't have to work extra hard to be any of those things. So I always play nice in everything I do; or I at least try my all to play kindly in everything I do.

Is it so much to ask for a girl to be included? Truly that is not too much to ask. I want people to be accepting of me. I want people to genuinely ask me to hang out with them. Being ignored, bullied, having your spirits crushed gets old after 13 (going on fourteen after just two short lunar cycles) strenuous years of life.

* * *

The human race is more than fascinating. Especially how we never seem to be able to hold in our opinions. Everyone's declarations of myself range from being a random nerd that spends her free time studying the patterns of insect migration (true) to a s _ _ z that eats other peoples hair and other types of DNA (False; and creepy). All the sentences where the subject matter is myself are so obtuse and naive that they are to a point of being laughable.

People think that the notes passed, the statements whispered, the rumors that spread never get back around to me. But, guess what? They do. And some of them have the affecting power to cut deep, transparent, emotional gashes in me. Teenagers really are as dumb as adults think we are. Honestly, how can people presume I never here about all the crazed theories about where I come from or what species I am (thank you for that wonderful rumor, Logan Reese: sarcasm intended)? Well, guess what, world? I do hear everything people converse about myself. And shaking it all off is a skill I am perfecting as we speak.

Words pass between adolescents faster than Chase Matthews' heart races when his eyes find Zoey Brooks'. When a new assumption about me makes its way out of the creator of the new rumor's brain, spat out of their mouth, about an hour later everyone on campus knows about. People all over the US, the world, know, thanks to the form of technology known as emailing. Bottom line; words exchanged between anyone through the ages of 11 and 20 spread. Quickly.

I'll tell anyone this, face to face; I. AM. QUINN. PENSKY. I am indifferent (for now), unique, a little quirky (okay, maybe a lot more than a little), but one thing I am not is a coward. I do not hide from my emotions, or from the people that like to toy with them. I will not change who I am for anyone in this universe.

Turn around, Logan. I am here to tell you off, something I am rather good at. No one gets away with writing "Freak, geek, ugly" all over my dorm door, and putting all my furniture on the roof of the dorm house. Dean Rivers is beyond furious at you and your buddies that helped you perform the vile deeds. I am standing right behind you, staring viciously at your back. And I wait patiently for you to turn around, and face your doom. Mine as well embrace this beautiful, magical fact Logan; you will never beat Quinn.

* * *

You can pretend all you want. Feel free to sympathize for me. But it won't change this information; you don't know how it feels. You don't know how it feels when people roll their eyes, walk away, swat the books from your small, anemic looking hands. Sure, a few girls here can relate when the guys shout "Grow a chest, hideous!" at you, but it stings. It burns. And it aches. So, feel free to carry on with all the acts of sympathy and the façades, but they don't change the looming fact; no one in my life knows exactly how it feels to see everyone else have close confidants.

Feeling is one thing. Living is a whole different concept. They work together though, making feeling apart of living. The part that makes thoughts form and spring inside brains. The part that causes emotions to fill you up, and create who you are. Feelings, in a way, a sense, are actions. You may think that statement is illogical; but if you think about it, truly ponder it, it makes crystal clear sense. One in three people think they feel the retched feeling of being left out. But one in eight people truthfully experience it. And in a different case for every individual. I, most unfortunately, am one of the truthfully left out. No one knows how my case feels. Feels what it is like. Don't lie to me, saying everyone is overcome by this feeling at one point in life. Because, in the end, that statement is significantly illogical.

Being your own best friend. What thoughts race across your mind after reading that? Do said thoughts involve the word "Loser?" Don't lie, because you and I both know that said word was showcased in your mind. Another most unfortunate fact about me, is that yes, I am my own best friend, unless you count an alpaca as a best friend. I have made my peace with it, over the years. After awhile, when you tell yourself that friends only get in the way of your life's goals, you can almost think it is a true fact. Almost.

* * *

If only a person could have the power of telepathic-y. Maybe then that person could see who I really am. That I have different sides; that I am more than just brains. At a first glance, you might think "Sloppy" or even "Hippy." Yes, my mother grew up in a hippy environment. So I must say 'man' and 'dude' all the time, have a billion lava lamps and dream catchers, and have the hygiene skills of barnyard animals. My eyesight must be horrible, and my family must be poor, since I have these old style glasses. I must be a true freak. Weirdo. Learn not to form opinions to quickly, America.

I am, apparently, uptight. Afraid to have fun. Run from any scene that has the potential to cause a ruckus. Only laugh to the scientific jokes that involve some sort of pun. If one of these statements have been a part of your definition of me, obviously I am not who you seem to think I am. Major failure on your behalf. It would be better if you walked away now, because there is no plausible way for you to understand myself. Yes, I mean you. Just stand up and walk away, Mandy Franklin. Bye.

In class, I excel farther than anyone in the history of PCA (even further than that upperclassman, Miles Broody). Teachers don't love me as much after they find out I correct their inaccurate lectures. But, my least favorite teacher of them all, is the dreaded art teacher, Miss Verso. How dare she cut me off once I jump into her lesson, explaining that linear perspective is more than just lining everything up to a certain point in a design. How dare she give me a zero for the day, for 'disrupting class'. I was educating her, and the class. Especially, how dare she not even let me TRY to be the example artist for the class. This particular conversation went something along the lines of:

"Quinndeline, dear-"

"Actually, my name is just Quinn, ma'am. My mom wanted my name to be-"

"QUINN! Excuse my tone, dear. But I think you lack the artistic skills to be student teacher for this assignment."

"Pardon me? The assignment is to sketch a tennis ball! I could do that as a fetus!"

"I think Heather is a more gifted artist and would be a lovely teacher. What do you say, Heather?"

It ended with me storming into the hall way, after I was sent out. Was it necessary for me to be sent out for planting my Quinnvention, a paint pencil (a normal pencil on the outside, but filled with liquidly, thin paint on the inside, that flows out when the tip is placed on paper) on Heather's desk, ruining her sketches? I hardly think it deserves more than a few reprimanding words. So I add Miss Verso to the ever so long list that continues to expand with names. The title of this certain list, you may wonder; People who don't give me a chance.

* * *

Ah, Zoey Brooks. You have dominated the top girl spot at PCA since you stepped your small feet on the pavement of this campus. You are my first friend here, but I don't even think I can use the word friend. Where you stand in my life is sort of the-girl-who-pities-me-so-she-talks-to-poor-lonely-me. And when you asked me through a note today in our work period why I was avoiding you, I wrote back this:

Zoey, I am touched you wanted to reach out to me and try to be friends. I enjoyed having you room with me. But you will never understand how I felt when you left me to sleep alone again, in a colossal room. How I feel when I get shoved into the side of the hall ways. Because none of the horrid events I put up with will ever happen to you. Because you are pretty and popular, and everyone adores you. Watching everyone have a confidant, having parties, outside of it all, it becomes affecting. But you will never experience the feeling of being outside of a crowd; you will always be the center of them.

You don't know what it is like to be left out of every single social activity. It sucks, to put it bluntly. But that is an accomplishment for yourself, trust me. Watching people run in the opposite direction of you, just so they can get out of talking to you for a second more, it...it isn't the greatest moment. Or, in my case, moments.

Finally, you will never be nor have you ever been your own best friend. Pride yourself on that fact, Zoey. Be thankful for every blessing God hands you.

Don't bother writing back, because I won't answer. I am trying to figure out this formula for a new chemical structure enhancer I am working on.

–Q

* * *

Sitting in a dorm room meant for three, all by yourself, it isn't in the least entertaining. Thank the stars I have Quinnventions to devote my time too. But sitting, standing, jumping rope, whatever I may be doing, it is tiring to spend all my after school/before school hours in this room. Sickening, almost. Verging on boring. Sometimes, I even feel like I waste my time. Mostly when one of my Quinnventions fails miserably, but the feeling still comes and goes for no apparent reasoning.

* * *

Dana Cruz, you can be as judgmental and evil as Logan. Yesterday, when you called me that cursed four letter word, and told me I should wear a brown bag over my head so I couldn't blind anyone with my ugly face, you looked shocked when I doubled over laughing. I laughed because it was true, Dana. In that moment, I felt like a...like a... (Gulp)…spaz. In that moment, my face was twisted in an ugly grimace, because of an A- on a social studies test. You got confused, but eventually joined in on my laughing fit. It was nice for you to apologize, and explain why you were vicious to me for no reason; Logan had been not knowingly making you jealous. I will never understand why you like him, but I think you two have the potential to be a good couple. After you say kind words, they are replaced by a threat to not tell anyone about this softer side of you.

Dana, later that day, you called me worse names. You called me these unrepeatable names in front of every member of this school. And tears traced down my face. I thought you of all people would have some mercy on me; after all, remember that one night I came across you crying on the beach? We opened up to each other that night, Dana. We understood each other. So what that it was months ago? It still happened, and you can't ignore that. But you shouted despicable words at me, and I took them, without fight our resisting. When I rushed into my dorm from humiliation, after I cried for a solid half hour, I remembered something myself. My morals. Codes that I live by, that I know make me stronger and even more unique.

Dana, not matter how much you think you do, you don't know what it is like to be on the outer edges, staring in enviously, for you were ditched and left behind, miles back. Zoey is your 'BFF', not yourself. And you are a part of PCA's most respected freshman group. Stop the pity party for yourself. Stop the act. Cause you are one of the few people I care about, and can't stand to see you be made of plastic.

* * *

Logan Reese. A name that makes my insides flip, and not in a good way. You think you are hot stuff. You think you can get every single girl in this school to beg you, on their hands and knees, for so little as a peck on the cheek. But I know one fact that you may not know yourself, but maybe your subconscious does; if you asked me your signature line, "Wanna make out?" I would hurt you in ways unimaginable, because I am a wholesome person that doesn't encourage in anyway demeaning people because their gender, or for any other reason. And I find it humorous you can't take what you dish out.

A week ago as of today, you walked into the lounge, and wiped your chewed up, saliva covered gum on my brand new laptop. You thought this was funny. But you ceased laughing when my prototype laser pen (I am thinking of creating a watch, too, but that idea is stored away in my cabinet of blue prints) hit you in the chest. You called me a piece of sh*t (even in my thoughts I won't repeat the word fully) that no one loved. And I slapped you, something I vowed never to do. But you aggravate me in ways I cannot describe. I looked you square in the eye, and told you the truth, that somewhere in your pea sized brain, you already knew. I told you a list of things. I started with calling you a coward for not facing the reasoning behind your bullying. Then I called you a low life jerk that has an unhealthy sized ego, and that you have commitment issues. Then I told you what I have been telling people for the past year; you don't know what it is like, or how it feels. Then I told you I hated you, more than anything in the world.

Logan, I told over 20 people my life code. But you, by far, responded in the least likely way. After the words escaped my mouth, you crashed your rough yet soft lips onto mine. I pulled back, instantly. I was in a loving relationship with Mark Del Figgalo, and am not the type of girl to go and cheat. I slapped you again, and you smiled, challenging me to admit I liked it. You told me that I needed to escape my happy fantasy world, and come live real life. You told me that if I wanted to be socially connected, then come back to school next year, and include myself in the gang. You told me I acted selfish, and that I was dumb to think everyone in the gang wasn't already my friend. And the words that you told me lastly surprised me more than anything else you had already said. You told me that you were my friend from day one. And then, your lips found mine for a second time, and I didn't pull back due to shock. Thankfully you broke it off in less than two seconds, and on your face laid a smirk. I wanted to make words form, but my voice box seemed to have malfunctioned. And this was the last thing you said to me, before I saw you next school year:

"See, Pensky? I leave all the girls speechless."

And I slapped you, for the third time, because really, no one knows what I went through this year, and you, Logan, were one of the main perpetrators in my life.

* * *

**A/N- ****I realize she slips in and out of character, but I am proud of this. And the song's lyrics, I love them, and how they worked so effortlessly in this story.**

**REVIEW! Pretty please? I will review stories of your own if you do!**

**Almost forgot. Go read the writings of Katerina the Von and emeralddusk. And then review for them, too.**

**I am off to sleep...or maybe write more...**

**~Tessie**


End file.
